It’s party time!

Revolution, Pakistan style, comes pre-packaged, containerised, and is confined to a small area in the national capital

It would be easy to deduce from a viewing of a day’s output by most of our TV channels, that the revolution supposedly in progress was largely made up of under-thirties — and a lot of them women — all out to have a damn good time. They dance the night away to choons pumped out by a celebrity DJ, add thousands of selfies to the global pool of instant inanity and cheer to order when Che Cricketa delivers chapter the umpteenth of his revolutionary manifesto, which is very much a work under construction. Or not.

They dip in and out of history. Many of them appear to have day jobs and toddle back home after a night of hard partying to clean themselves up (the site of the revolution is an open sewer) before reporting for duty. Possibly in burger joints.

By contrast the other crowd of potential usurpers seem rather more reserved, get their dose of what the future holds delivered earlier in the day by a refugee from the Canadian welfare benefits system, and are less likely to be serving pizzas to errr…burgers when not engaged in the downfall of the state.

The frontage of the Supreme Court has been transformed into a dobhi ghat for a very public washing of assorted dirty linen, trees and shrubs trampled or turned into makeshift campfires and in a fresh development on Wednesday morning; digging graves. Whether for themselves or members of the government is unclear but they do nothing to prettify the landscape.

All this is covered by the rolling news channels which produce television of unrelenting tedium, possibly a revolutionary tactic in itself designed to bore the masses to death. When not whizzing their drones over either empty chairs or up close and personal with whoever has the mike, we are regaled with what purports to be analysis by a bunch of decrepit chancers long past their own political sell-by date. These rent-a-rants will doubtless be in receipt of a fat retainer, brought to and fro the studio in air-conditioned luxury, wound up before going on air and then left pretty much to themselves to babble for seemingly aeons before being put back in the box.

Somewhere in the mix will be anchors, most of who appear to have all the wit and sagacity of the mooring devices they are so inappropriately titled after. Well-trained parrots could do the job just as well.

There are heroes and winners of course but they get little coverage. The heroic efforts of the CDA street cleaners are worthy of a collective medal and anybody engaged in the fast-food business will be laughing all the way to the bank. Isloo hoteliers also reportedly are doing brisk business as well, so at least some will come out of this smiling.

And that, Dear Reader, is your revolution, Pakistan style. It comes pre-packaged, containerised if you will, and is confined to a small area in the national capital. It has induced paralysis in large parts of the country, not least in the minds of the government that appears as clueless as most of those seeking its ouster, and appears not to be contagious.

There have been scattered reports of desultory flag waving and chanting here and there but the majority of the country tries to go about its business as per usual — and mostly succeeds. There is no sense of imminent collapse nor even anything much beyond a widespread sense of entirely justified irritation. There are said to be many who tacitly support the merry bands of revolutionaries, and there has been a rattling of sabres by the conservative crowd outraged at men and women mingling freely and yes, dancing in the streets.

Beyond that I struggle to find a whiff of revolutionary fervour. Bahawalpur in some part still considers the invention of the wheel to a suspiciously revolutionary. Periodic reality checks around the country elicits more of the same. The same old, same old. Few expect much to change and most wish it would just stop. Right now. This minute.

My guess? Fudge, compromise and promises never meant to be kept will form the figleaf. All over. Until the next time.

Published in The Express Tribune, August 28^th, 2014.